


Won't You Tell Me Your Name

by deuil



Category: JoJo no Kimyouna Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:12:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deuil/pseuds/deuil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His name was Diavolo."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't You Tell Me Your Name

The boy’s name was Diavolo.  
The name was given to him by the warden in the all-female prison. Diavolo. The devil. A child spawned from some sort of miracle or disaster, given birth by some unknown source—like the virgin Mary, the mother had been impregnated by something almost like an otherworldly power. But the way the warden saw it, the child was foul, unlucky, _dirty_. The devil’s child.  
She saw the way the timid eyes flickered, resting on a specific spot for seconds, minutes, before moving again to find a face. And when it did, when it found a target, she saw the eyes narrow and change into slits, a curious discoloration occurring around the pupils.  
“Good morning, warden.”  
The sound made her blood run cold, and it wasn’t long before she had ordered the child sent away to his mother’s hometown. _Good morning, warden_. The words were a veiled threat, behind unknowing and innocent child’s eyes. Diavolo. The devil. The word came to her in her sleep, and she would wake up seeing curious visions of mutilation, mouths sewn shut and corpses hidden under floorboards.  
But she had never been one for seeing visions, so she dismissed them.  
Nightmares.

All she was obligated to do was her job.

 

 

The boy’s name was Diavolo.  
The priest was fond of the shy, mild-mannered boy. He wasn’t particularly worried about the way Diavolo seemed to stare into space sometimes, the way he seemed to mumble to himself sometimes: because the moment he called out to who he now considered his son, Diavolo would turn around and smile sweetly, looking a little dazed but otherwise fine.  
“Father.”  
The word made the priest swell, and he would watch the way Diavolo would look up (the eyes seeming to shift, but the priest dismissed it as a nervous tic), the freckles moving around on the pale face. Endearing. It was a shame that whoever had decided to dub him had graced him with such an unfortunate name.  
Diavolo. The devil’s child. 

But he was obligated to love him, all the same.

 

 

The man’s name was Diavolo.  
She had found him walking along the beach, a faraway look in his eyes, and she was inexplicably drawn to that melancholy expression, an enigma, shrouded in a mystery that even he himself didn’t seem to realize. They had talked for a few moments, and when he proved to be more amiable than he originally seemed, she had hooked arms with him, lying on the soft sand of the Sardinian coast, and watched the sun set over the sea.  
A pink sky, fading into the blue-green of the water.  
She traced his freckles, spots dotting him, and had laughed—and it seemed like the first time she’d ever felt so warm. Because the man was, in a way, still a boy, and as their meetings became more frequent, she was always surprised at how the faraway look could instantly turn innocent, shy, timid.  
“Will you take a picture of me?”  
It was on their final date (she didn’t know that at the time, of course) that she had finally asked. The man, or boy, named Diavolo had looked a bit confused, a moment’s hesitation clouding him (so shy, always so shy) (shy?) before there was an embarrassed chuckle, and he took the camera from her.  
“Smile.”  
And she wondered why his name was Diavolo, because the name, she thought, was so inappropriate. 

She felt obligated to love him, despite the name.

 

 

The man’s name was Diavolo. 

But Trish didn’t know that. 

Trish traced the photograph of her mother at her mother’s funeral, her mother who was once so young, so vibrant, so beautiful, reduced to a bedridden invalid, all because of some man that Trish didn’t even know _existed_. There were bitter tears at first because of that, knowing that her mother had lived and loved, had been tossed aside like some sort of insignificant _thing_ , and Trish had vowed that if she ever found the man responsible, she would punch him across the face. For her mother. For herself.

_What kind of man could he be, to abandon me and my mother like that?_

 

Because only the Devil could be so heartless.


End file.
